


Gentle Cheater

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Making Love, Parentlock, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-15 00:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9211877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: It started back at the wedding...





	1. From the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on New Years Eve as some kind of end of year give-away on tumblr but thought I might put it up here as well. Will be continued - but not before S4 is over :)

The first time it happens, Sherlock is stunned. No, shocked. And that’s quite something.

He has left the wedding early. Everybody was dancing, having a good time; even Janine had hooked up with that geek. Mrs Hudson was getting tipsy from the champagne, Greg and Molly had started flirting, despite… what’s his name clinging to her like a limpet.

Sherlock had made his speech, solved a crime, played his waltz and now wasn’t needed anymore. Especially not by… _oh, for god’s sake, don’t get melodramatic!_

He had organised this whole event! He knew how it was supposed to end. He’d prepared himself.

But still… can you really prepare to get your heart broken? No, not broken, ripped out, tossed around a bit, then thrown onto the dance floor, trampled on, to be finally discarded with the rest of the rubbish at 3 o'clock in the morning into a big black waste bag – not unlike a body bag.

No, you can’t prepare for that. Not even by claiming to be a high functioning sociopath (had John ever believed this anyway?)

Sherlock knew what would dull the pain. John wouldn’t like it, though. But fuck John, wasn’t it his fault that Sherlock was in this sorry state after all?

 _Oh, for god’s sake – stop whining! Who are you kidding, Sherlock? It’s your fault, yours alone. It’s always your fault. You played the game, you knew the stakes – and now you lost. Because some fucking psychopath was more important_ – but was that Mary or Moriarty?

Sherlock got his coat and made for the venue door. He even left his violin behind - at the moment, he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to play it again.

He didn’t wait to put the Belstaff properly on, he just had to leave all this noise, these people – who were most of them anyway? - behind. Only when he walked through the park, the cool nigh air bringing him back to his senses, the music just a faint buzz in the distance, did he finally shrug the coat on with a dramatic swirl. He felt save wrapped in the heavy wool – it was like an armour, a cocoon, protecting him like the pillow forts he’d built when people still had called him Billy – or Master William – a lifetime ago back at Sherrinford Hall.

Before…

No! He would seriously relapse if he allowed this train of thought to continue.

Sherlock stopped, standing under a weeping willow, and got his phone out to check where the hell he might be able to get a cab that would bring him to the station; and if there would be a train back to London. He had a room reserved at the hotel connected to the venue – but he just couldn’t face the prospect of lying in bed under the same roof as John and Mary during their… nuptials. Which was, of course, totally irrational. Sherlock was well aware that John and Mary had consummated their relationship moths ago. Mary was pregnant, after all, and despite Mycroft suspecting otherwise, Sherlock was perfectly aware how children were received.

He just wasn’t very keen on imagining it.

So, back to Baker Street it was. Mrs Hudson could take his luggage back with her tomorrow. He would have the quiet house all to himself…

What once would have been bliss now seemed only shallow, lonely and sad.

_God, you are pathetic, Sherlock. Pull yourself together. Marriage, a family, children – that’s what people do!_

Stupid, he was always so stupid. How could he even think for one minute that John…

“Sherlock, that you? Where do you think you are going?”

Sherlock spun around as if caught red-handed (well, in a way, he was, wasn’t he?).

John was jogging towards him over the lawn – probably ruining his court shoes. He had removed his tailcoat and was just in his waistcoat, shirtsleeves rolled up. His cheeks were flushed from dancing, drinking and the cold.

Sherlock froze and blinked, his phone in his hand, unable to move or answer, as if spellbound by what could only be his imagination playing tricks on him. This happened sometimes – increasingly often, if he was honest with himself – but this vision seemed incredibly cruel even for his hyperbolic brain.

“Hey, Sherlock, you alright? Did you have too much to drink?” John smirked. “I do remember the stag night, you know. Despite what you might think, you really can’t hold your drink.” John swallowed as he beamed up at Sherlock, who still stood rooted to the spot and stayed utterly, frighteningly silent. “Sherlock…?”

John carefully thumped his shoulder – as mates would do, Sherlock thought, and the word sloshed around like vitriolic acid in his skull until he actually felt it might ooze out of his eye-sockets, ears, nostrils, mouth… a sharp, burning, gooey substance dissolving his skin and exposing the white bone beneath it. He had to close his eyes and take a deep breath as not to vomit all over John in his ridiculous wedding attire.

John shouldn’t wear those garments anyway. John was soft jumpers and baggy cardigans, chequered shirts and jeans; the Haversack jacket, smelling of antiseptic, coffee and gun oil. Not this perfumed, groomed cock in a dress shirt and woollen trousers with its sharp crease, his left hand sporting this hateful golden band that tied him to one Mary Morstan, a woman who seemed sassy and fun, who could recognise a skip coat and bear children…

“My cardigans aren't baggy.” John stated very calmly. “Sherlock, are you aware that you are saying all this out loud?” Now John’s hand was around his upper arm, the other grabbing the sleeve of the Belstaff.

“What?” Sherlock snapped out of his revery, but it came out confused and subdued instead of fierce and dismissive.

“Sherlock, calm down. Nothing will have to change. We will still…”

“No!” Sherlock shoved John violently away, as if suddenly waking up form hibernation. “No, John! You chose her! Everything changed a long time ago!”

“You died!” John shouted, suddenly exploding with pent-up rage.

“I didn’t!” Sherlock retorted, equally angry. Suddenly, they stood at loggerheads, panting. A vein throbbed at John’s temple; yet he still held onto Sherlock’s lapels.

Until he suddenly pulled Sherlock close; their mouths locked. It was more biting than kissing, a messy tangle of wet lips and sloppy tongues. Noses bumped and teeth crushed; Sherlock tasted blood but didn’t care, it didn’t matter because John was kissing him, licking into his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip, biting down, and it felt… GOD, IT FELT GLORIOUS! Sherlock thought he was about to combust any second now and eventually got his hands on John as well, grabbing his shoulders, his back, his waist, holding on for dear life.

They only parted to gulp in some air, foreheads still pressed together, unwilling to let the other go. Sherlock panted; John’s eyes had turned nearly black, his pupils dilated. He licked his lips and Sherlock’s tongue followed until they were kissing again, a bit more coordinated this time. Their movements became more languid, lascivious, even lewd. Sherlock flicked his tongue against John’s soft palate, which, he registered triumphantly, elicited a moaned plea from John before pressing his crotch against Sherlock’s thigh. Suddenly, they were rutting against each other until Sherlock withdrew when John grabbed his arse and started to knead his buttocks.

“What?” John huffed against Sherlock’s mouth, his voice raw and needy. “Don’t leave… stay.”

“John, this is actually a terrible idea.” Sherlock couldn’t help himself but giggled frantically. “Of all the chances you had with me, do you have to choose your wedding day?”

“Seems like I have to.” John grinned against Sherlock’s mouth. He brushed his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone before giving him a chaste kiss. “Stay, please.”

“I can’t.”

“You’ve got a room at the hotel. I could pop over, later…”

“No, John, you can’t. And I won’t sit there, waiting up for you, until you can sneak off for two minutes for some stolen kisses and guilty groping.”

“Sherlock, no, it’s not like that…”

“John, if you want to see me again, you know where you can find me.” With that, Sherlock retreated into the shadows, leaving the park and the venue behind. Eventually, he caught a cab on the main road. He didn’t look back.

John will either come to him or he won’t. 

At least, the need to buy supplies has waned. Sherlock’s skin is on fire; yet his mind is quite at ease. Whatever happens next, he had this. They had this. Wanton kisses beneath a weeping willow.

Well, better than nothing, Sherlock muses.

He’s somehow quite sure that this isn’t over yet. In fact, it might have just begun.


	2. Second Time Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shows up at 221b and things quickly escalate.

It happens the second time 23 days after the wedding. Sherlock comes home on a hazy evening in early June to find John sitting in his old chair, sipping a cold beer. Condensation makes the bottle slippery, or so Sherlock assumes, because John nearly drops it to the floor when Sherlock enters the almost dark living room. The days last longer now, but it's after eleven o'clock, so dust has long stettled over the metropolis, though it never gets fully dark.

John glances up at Sherlock, ruefully and unsure. Sherlock has no idea what to make of this, so he walks over into the kitchen and gets a bottle of water form the fridge. The severed head grins back at him as he opens the door, but Sherlock doesn't bother as he lunges past it.

He greedily gulps down half the bottle; his throat is too dry, and it's not only the lingering heat in the stuffy flat that makes him thirsty.

When he returns to the living room, John has stood up and walked over to the window. He looks anywhere but at Sherlock.

“Hi.” John raises his bottle in a small salute, only vaguely gesturing in Sherlock's general direction.

“Hello, John.”

“I still got my keys, you know. Thought I just drop by, see how things are.” He still glances around nervously. The flat is in quite a state, even compared to their lowered standards. Papers, books, photos and half empty mugs cover every horizontal surface. The sofa is occupied by a blue metallic bicycle frame wrapped in plastic foil; on the coffee table John can make out what looks like a dismantled printer next to five beheaded Barbie dolls. “How are things?”

He sounds worried, Sherlock notices. As John finally dares to look directly at Sherlock, his face is lined with worry.

“Fine.” Sherlock retorts and sufficiently stifles a sniffle. His nose is a bit runny these days. John mustn't know.

“Fine?” John sounds doubtful. Then he snorts a laugh as he takes in Sherlock's appearance. “I didn't even know you owned such garments. I thought it was all dress shirts and sharp suits.”

John is clearly alluding to Sherlock's attire: old grey track suit bottoms and a lighter, rather dirty hoody. He's even wearing trainers.

“It's for a case. I'm undercover.” Now he has to really wipe his nose on his sleeve. John sees it the moment Sherlock realises it as well: it's not snot, but blood. Sherlock stares down at his arm, equal parts fascinated and horrified, until John presses a wet tea towel into his face.

“Look at the ceiling. Put our head back.” 

John's hand rests briefly at Sherlock's sweaty nape.

“Stop fussing, John, it's nothing.” Sherlock's miffed voice is slightly muffled by the damp cloth.

“Sure.” John takes a deep breath. “Sorry, this has been a stupid idea.” He strides towards the door, stopping just short before opening it to drop his keys onto the small table. “I better give those back then.” He doesn't turn to face Sherlock, but he doesn't leave either, as if he's waiting for something; a word, a sign.

“I don't mind.” Sherlock blurts out, for the lack of anything better to say.

This makes John only square his shoulders. “You don't mind... what?” He asks.

_You kissing me – you not being here – you getting married – you leaving me – you keeping the keys._

What Sherlock says is: “You dropping by. Sorry I wasn't in. But this will always be... your home. Feel free to use it whenever... it seems convenient.” He has no idea if he is talking about the flat or himself right now.

But finally, John turns around and looks at him. “You look like shit, Sherlock. How long has this been going on.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Christ, what the hell happened?”

_You left. You chose her. You kissed me. I love you. I've always loved you. Since the day we met. But you don't love me. Stop caring. Leave me alone. Don't go!_

“I missed you.” Sherlock's voice is rough and he blinks rapidly. That was not supposed to happen.

John opens his mouth but no sound escapes. And then he's suddenly crowding in on Sherlock, takes the crimson soaked tea towel away from his nose and mouth and holds Sherlock's face in both his hands. John's thumbs stroke over his cheekbones once, twice, and then Sherlock's eyes flutter shut as John kisses him. It's much more gentle than Sherlock has anticipated almost tender, and he feels an embarrassing sob rise in his throat.

It's Sherlock who takes the next step, parting his lips and pushing his tongue into John's mouth. It's raw and needy, like the noises he makes, but Sherlock doesn't care. Neither does John, if fiercely shoving Sherlock back against the desk is anything to go by.

It's a hardly graceful tumble of limbs and clothes, more resembling a wrestling match than making out, but eventually Sherlock's trousers are tugged down to mid-thigh and John's fly is open. Clumsy fingers brush and rub hot, heated flesh while their low, wanton gasps fill the room. The kissing almost turns to biting as Sherlock grabs John's arse and pulls him even closer, until their cocks touch. They both moan as they start to buck against each other, slick and hard, and the sensation soon is too much for them. Sherlock comes first with a somewhat surprised cry, and upon feeling wet warmth spread between them, John follows suit, biting down on Sherlock's collar bone to stop himself from shouting the man's name.

Afterwards, Sherlock's legs simply give out and he sinks onto the floor. He's dimly aware that John cleans himself up quickly with the tea towel before he tugs himself in again, wincing a little while adjusting his jeans. The towel drops onto Sherlock's belly but it takes him a few seconds to realise that his crotch is covered in come. He dabs at the stains half-heartedly, his hands still shaking too much, his thoughts too fazed to make an effort.

“So...” John draws out the syllable, his fists clenching, unclenching. “I could... make some tea?” He offers.

But Sherlock just shakes his head. “I think you better go... home.” His voice is not exactly cold but sounds flat and detached. “To Mary.” He adds. He's not looking at John.

“Right. Yes. Mary.” John sounds uncomfortable, his voice suddenly full of regret. Or is this just Sherlock's heightened imagination?

“I need... you know, I have a... case. Yes. I need to... think.” Sherlock hates that he's stammering, but John has to leave now. Otherwise, he can't guarantee for anything.

“Sherlock...” John's voice almost cracks. His hands are now balled into fists.

“Go!” Sherlock shouts, and his angry voice echoes loud in the still night. “Just go!”

“God, I...” But John doesn't finish whatever he was about to say. Instead, he sharply turns and storms out of the flat, not bothering to close the door. Sherlock squats on the floor in the dark, and it takes him a while to realise that he's crying. He wipes his face with the filthy towel, too late remembering that it by now holds both heir bodily fluids. Never mind, he was about to take a shower anyway.

Only later, when he returns from the bathroom wrapped in his favourite dressing gown, does Sherlock realise that John has left his keys.


	3. Three's a Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This started out as a reconciliation and evolved into some kind of parentlock. In between there's even a hint of sex. I just needed something with a happy ending...

The third time it happens is when Sherlock slowly comes round in a hospital bed. John is sitting in a chair by his side, tense, tired, stubbly.

He looks worn, dark shadows under his eyes, his expression pinched with worry. His left hand rests warm on Sherlock's right, stroking a thumb back and forth, carefully avoiding the PVC supplying Sherlock's system with much needed pain killers.

Sherlock has a few seconds to study John before the man realises that his eyes are open. John looks worried, haggard, but hope lights up the familiar features when he recognises that Sherlock has regained consciousness. However, the relief is carefully tucked away behind a mask of friendly indifference.

“Hey”, John says, but he can't help it, his eyes shine warm with tenderness. “There you are.”

Sherlock can only cough. He tries to swallow, but there is something lodged in his mouth, down his throat. Panic wells up inside him. Luckily, John is a good doctor and senses what's going on. He bows over Sherlock and quickly removes the tube that helped Sherlock breath while he was unconscious.

Sherlock splutters and drools in the process, so John gets a paper napkin and gently dabs at his chafed lips and chin.

“Are you thirsty?” John asks.

Sherlock's throat hurts and feels raw like sandpaper. He tries to swallow again, to speak, but he's sore, so he just nods. John offers him a glass of water and Sherlock takes a sip, then another. It might be the best drink Sherlock's ever had.

When John has put the glass back on the bedside cabinet, he asks, without looking Sherlock in the eye: “Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?”

Sherlock has to close his eyes again as he tries to concentrate. A skyscraper, glass and chrome. An office... a figure clad in black, cocking a gun, turning... “Mary”, he croaks as his eyes fly open in shock. His hands flutter to his chest.

He's wearing a hospital gown, but can feel the bandage underneath. He stills.

“Yes. Mary.” John states, gravely, squaring his shoulders. When he finally looks at Sherlock, his gaze does not waver.

“I didn't... I didn't see that coming.” Sherlock whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Me neither.” John retorts, and then exhales sharply through his nose.

Sherlock can't help it, he giggles.

John seems irritated for a second before he joins in with a snorted laugh. Suddenly, they are both laughing, embarrassingly high pitched squeals escaping their mouths, echoing inappropriately loud in the otherwise silent, sterile room. They only stop when Sherlock clutches at his chest in pain and John kicks back into doctor mode, remembering a bit too late that the man lying in bed has suffered very recently an almost fatal gun shot wound.

“Sorry, Sherlock... so sorry.” John huffs as he wipes the back of his hand over his face to dry the tears. “Are you alright? Sorry, this must hurt like shit...”

This time, it's Sherlock who clutches at John's hand, a little weak, yet the need this touch communicates is obvious.

They both calm down and try to get their breathing under control. It takes a moment. When they look at each other again, it's John's turn to swallow hard. Sherlock's pale silver eyes are soft and almost pleading. It feels like a stab to John's heart.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I truly am.” John repeats, but this time it sounds earnest, honest and serious. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but John cuts him short. “No, please, listen. I behaved like a dick. Like the utter cock I had the nerve to call you back in that train carriage...”

“Car.” Sherlock inserts.

“And I... what?” John is temporarily derailed

“It's car, not carriage.” There's the hint of a fond smile on Sherlock's face. “Someone once told me.”

“Anyway, as I was trying to say...”

“Please, John, stop it. You don't have a talent for this sort of thing, and I'm way too drugged to listen to you properly. Just save your words... for later.”

John stares. Then he sighs and stares some more. Then he nods. “Ok.” He coughs, gets up, and walks over to the window. “I'm leaving her, you know.” He says, his back to Sherlock, his gaze wandering over the grey London sky and the wet London streets outside without seeing anything of it. 

“Yes.”

“Of course you do.” John sighs again, but it's not exasperated, just accepting. “I'd like to come home to you.”

“The last time you left your keys.” There's no accusation in those words, and yet, even John can sense the treacherous undercurrent of jarring emotions in Sherlock's well-schooled, guarded tone.

“As you never tire of telling the world: I'm an idiot.” John dares to turn then, but Sherlock's eyes have fluttered close.

“Whatever”, he breathes, already drifting off in some morphine-endorsed much needed sleep. “Let's talk... later. When I'm... accountable for my words... and actions...”

“As if you ever are.” John grins.

The last thing Sherlock feels before he drowns in soft, warm darkness are John's cool lips pressed against his forehead, stubble slightly grazing his sensitive skin.

\----------

John moves back into Baker Street on a rainy afternoon in late October. Greg, Molly and even Wiggins are helping, carrying boxes up the seventeen steps to 221b. Mrs Hudson provides refreshments.

Only Sherlock flounces on the couch, apparently still reconvalescent, though John sees through the thin excuse. 

He had tried to get Sherlock to give him a hand and had bristled at Sherlock's outright refusal - “In my sorry state, John? What kind of Doctor are you, a veterinarian?” - glowering over the comfortably outstretched figure residing on their sofa in nothing but pyjama bottoms and a thin t-shirt.

“You are such a fucking lazy git, Sherlock. It's unbelievable.”

Sherlock had just smiled smugly and whispered in that low voice that always made John's skin feel too tight and hot all over: “Oh, I will give you a hand. Later. But I fear I won't be able to if I exhaust myself while hauling your... stuff upstairs.” Their eyes had met, and there'd been sudden heat in Sherlock's look. His worn pyjama bottoms had done a poor job in disguising his apparent excitement.

After that, John had cautioned anyone who as much as suggested Sherlock might assist with the proceedings.

“He's still too weak. Leave him be. It'll only tire him and wear him out. I'm not risking that.” 

It borders on a wonder that the flat doesn't burn down that afternoon because of the smouldering looks both men shoot each other when they think no one is looking. 221B might only have been saved because Greg and Molly decide in a quick chat while restocking the kitchen cupboards that John and Sherlock definitely are not as subtle as they think they are. Their plan for a fast exit is even speed up by Wiggins, who bounces upon them and declares if he has to witness one more round of eye shagging he'll can't be held accountable for his reaction.

John is rather taken aback by his friends bidding him good-bye hastily, murmuring some vague apologies. But his irritation quickly abides as Sherlock sets out to fulfil his earlier promise.

They end up in Sherlock's bed, as there are numerous cardboard boxes still stacked on John's. This time, it's slow and sweet and tender.

Sherlock had already shed what little clothes he'd been wearing on his way to the bedroom, lying back on the duvet, spread out and welcoming, to watch John disrobe.

Then it's warm skin to skin, getting slick with sweat; hands wrapping around each other, tongues gliding. Soft moans getting louder as skin flushes pink, getting wet and messy. 

Sherlock doesn't just give John a hand but offers his mouth as well, sucking and licking until he swallows everything down John provides. The kiss they share afterwards is heated, lips almost bruising as John tastes himself on Sherlock's tongue.

“Now you.” John growls, kneeling between Sherlock's spread thighs, two fingers breaching his tight hole, slippery from when John had licked him right there until Sherlock had been sobbing with pleasure.

The short, sturdy fingers of John's other hand curl around Sherlock's beautiful hard and leaking cock, stroking him up and down in time with rubbing his prostate, and it doesn't take long until Sherlock spurts thick streams of semen all over his belly, right up to the scar in the middle of his chest.

John watches, enthralled, as Sherlock comes undone. He's so open, vulnerable, trusting. After all that happened, John is allowed to have this, to witness this, and it fills him with awe and gratitude that is almost too painful to acknowledge.

\----------

The arrangement works better than anyone would have predicted. John sees Rosy every second weekend and half the holidays. Sherlock proves to be surprisingly good with children – no, not children, but at least with John's child – and if need be (aka a case comes along), there's always Mrs Hudson to rely on. Mary seems reasonably happy with David, and if Sherlock refuses to meet her, well, John can't really blame him. Their own exchanges are kept as brief as possible and only evolve around decisions regarding their daughter.

When the divorce is finalised, John and Mary gain joined custody.

Mary gets married to David the following spring. Neither Sherlock nor Mrs Hudson do attend, but he smiles fondly when John gives him a framed picture of a two year old Rosy as a chubby flower girl, her frock crinkled, one braided pigtail already coming loose, holding John's hand.

When Rosy is five, she finally asks the question John has been waiting for – and slightly dreaded - over the last years.

“Daddy, why do you live with Sherlock?” 

They are all sitting at the breakfast table, Rosy smearing everything with honey while John reads the paper and Sherlock stirs sugar in his tea.

It is suddenly very quiet. John lowers the paper and catches Sherlock looking at him over the rim of his mug.

“Because I love him.” John answers, and if his voice wavers a bit Sherlock and Rosy both have the decency to ignore it.

Rosy nods, her face rather earnest for a small child. “That's good.” She says, spreading yet more honey on her plate, face and even some on her toast.

“Yes.” John says, returning to his paper.

“Did you always love him?” Rosy asks again after a moment.

John folds the paper carefully before replying. “Yes, Rosy, always. It just took me a while to realise it.”

“Why?” His daughter asks, wiping her sticky fingers into her bright blue night dress.

“Because I was an idiot.” John smiles over at Sherlock who plays with the bread crumbs covering the table, his cheeks flushed pink. “But I figured it out in the end.”

Rosy drops both the honey and the bomb with her next question. 

“Then why don't you get married to him?”

They are both on their knees on the dirty linoleum in an obvious attempt to avoid answering her. Sherlock gets a wet tea towel while John gathers up the shards of the honeypot, and in the following muddle of cleaning up and admonishing Rosy not to get out of her chair and cut her feet or spread the mess even more, the question is thankfully forgotten.

Until, in the evening, when they'd put Rosy to bed, John gathers up all his courage and enquires: “Would you, though, if I'd ask?”

Sherlock is silent for a long while, not pretending he doesn't know what John is talking about. He steeples his fingers under his chin in his typical thinking pose as minutes tick by. Finally, he answers: “No.”

John is hurt and relieved at the same time. “May I ask why not?”

“Because you already left your spouse once.”

“That doesn't mean...” John starts to protest, but Sherlock cuts him short: “I know, John. But it showed to me that such vows in front of a registrar are meaningless. They can be broken. We don't need that.”

“No, we don't.” John admits, pulling Sherlock out of his chair and into their bedroom to do some rather dirty things to the man he loves most in the world.


End file.
